


money power glory

by Ookami_Hime



Series: more to love [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bootlegging, Cunnilingus, F/M, Illegal Activities, Mob Boss Steve Rogers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Squirting, Vaginal Fingering, bisexual reader, plus size reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22669663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ookami_Hime/pseuds/Ookami_Hime
Summary: it’s 1921 and prohibition is in full swing. there’s an overwhelming demand for alcohol and steve, one of new york’s most notorious mobsters, wants to cash in. you and your product present the perfect opportunity
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Series: more to love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630834
Comments: 4
Kudos: 79





	money power glory

**Author's Note:**

> yes it’s true taylor has entered the world of reader inserts. plus size reader inserts, to be exact. because i can that’s why ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> anyway my good friend q said “give me mobster steve” and my brain went “HOLD MY FUCKING BEER”. this is mostly me being a history buff and spiraling out of control with plot and having little actual porn.  
> this was first posted over on my tumblr at blessedbucky

The very first time that Steve meets you, you’re on the back of a massive stallion. The enormous beast is barreling toward Steve and you don’t seem to be making any attempt at reigning the horse in to either make it slow down or move in another direction that’s not straight at him. Steve assumes this is a ploy your father’s come up with to intimidate him and Steve hasn’t gotten to where he is by tucking his tail between his legs and backing down in the face of danger and death. So, while his men curse and scramble around to the other side of the car that’s out of the way of your warpath, Steve straightens, squares his chin, and stands his ground.

Steve Rogers is one stubborn son of a bitch and if he’s going to be working with your family the way he wants to, it’s best you all know that now up front.

Your horse is probably about a foot away from Steve when you finally command it to stop. You’re dramatic and it one last show to intimidate Steve, you make the horse reel back on its hindlegs, kicking up dirt and neighing so loud it echoes. The animal’s hot breath fans out across Steve’s face for a moment before you tug at the reins, make a noise, and the horse dutifully turns to the side allowing Steve a better look at you.

Down here, hidden away in the slopes and hills of the Appalachian Mountains, you’re the opposite of the women that try to flock to the sides of Steve and his men. You’ve kept your hair long, going against the modern fashion. There’s a bandana around your head, keeping your hair out of your face. There’s sweat on your brow and smudges of dirt on your plump cheeks. Even dressed in your dirtied work overalls, he can see you’re all curves—wide hips, thick thighs, soft stomach, plush ass, and he could wax poetry about your oh-so-generous chest.

Steve’s bullheaded, but he’s not stupid. Atop your horse, staring down at him with a raised brow, he’ll admit that you’re the most gorgeous woman he’s ever met. _And…_ he has to unfortunately also admit to himself that you’re off-limits. He really can’t drop the ball on a potentially lucrative business deal by fucking a partner’s daughter.

Steve thinks you’ve both sized each other up enough, so he breaks the silence with a polite, “Ma’am.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Mister Rogers,” you reply with your southern drawl. Your voice is also sickly sweet. “I hope the trip wasn’t too hard on all y’all.” _I hope the trip wasn’t too hard on a skinny little thing like you_ , you don’t say but Steve hears all the same.

Steve shoots you the same grin he wears when he’s smashing men’s skulls in. You’re a fighter. As much a hellion as that horse you’re riding. Guess Bucky’s been right all these years, saying Steve gets his rocks off on danger.

“Girl,” your father’s voice booms. He’s in a matching pair of overalls, a pitchfork over his shoulder, storming toward you and Steve. “Lord, you’ve got your momma rolling in her grave, treating guests this way,” your father scolds and you duck your head like a proper, chastised southern belle. Your father can’t see the mischievous twinkle in your eye, though. “The hell’d you get that horse out for? You want to break your neck? He ain’t trained enough. Go put that horse back in the barn, wash up, get started on supper, and then you’ll meet this fella _you_ asked to come down here.”

“Yes, daddy.” Steve’s eyes glaze over at hearing the word _daddy_ leave those sinfully beautiful lips of yours. He’s thinking with his dick too much to completely process your father’s words and their meaning. His eyes are still locked on you as you dismount the horse. You flash Steve a smile, dangerously sharp, and he thinks he might be in love.

When you’ve disappeared into a nearby barn, your father claps Steve on the shoulder. “Aw, hell, I’m sorry, Rogers. I swear that girl’s got manners. She’s probably tired. We’ve been workin’ all day to get this corn picked. Way she was making it sound, you got here faster than she thought you would.” He gives Steve a slap on the back now. “Well, go on inside and make yourself comfortable. She’ll talk details with yah over supper.”

Steve blinks, confused. “Sir?”

Your father gives Steve a shit-eating grin. “Ain’t you heard, Rogers? You’ll be talking to my girl. She’s the one that handles the business. All I do is go up in them there woods, sit around with my buddies, drinking while we wait for the moonshine to cook. She sets up all the deals, handles the bookkeeping—” your father pauses and innocently asks, “Didn’t she say all this in them letters she’s been writing?”

No. No, you did not and your father knows that. It looks like troublemaking runs in your blood.

You’re waiting for Steve on the porch—face washed clean, dirt scrubbed away from your hands, bandana stripped from your hair that’s now pulled back with a white ribbon, and wearing in a simple yet pretty cornflower blue dress. You hold the door open, stepping to the side, still smiling at Steve in that predatory way. “Why don’t you come on in the kitchen and we’ll talk business while I’m cooking?”

\---

A year ago, in 1920, Steve had watched the high and mighty people clamor out onto the streets of New York to pour out and smash their bottles of liquor on the ground. It’d marked the official start to Prohibition and all Steve could think about during the whole spectacle was _potential_.

Of course, it wasn’t Steve and his crew alone who tried to cash in on the overwhelming demand for booze that was declared illegal. People are always going to get their hands on what they want. There have been tales of men who pass out miniature stills that allow people to make their own gin right there in their homes. Bathtub gin, he hears it’s called. You scoff and turn your nose up at the mention of it and call it exactly what it is— _rotgut_. You and your father are craftsmen in the art of alcohol. You give people what they want. _Quality_.

Slowly but surely, you’ve been working to spread your family’s name around. You explain to Steve that your father has been making moonshine since you were a child to make extra cash on the side. When your mother unexpectedly passed, he decided you were old enough to learn how to do it yourself. But like any small-town girl, you want _more_.

“And once Prohibition hit, cousin, business was a- _booming_ ,” you cheekily remark.

Steve wants to come to the rescue. He wants to make you a partner. You’ve got a high-class product that people will scramble to get their hands on. It’s not that watered-down shit he’s had to swallow down at speakeasies. He’ll pay to bring your business to New York. That, you argue, is not as easy as he makes it out to be, and shit goes downhill from there.

You and Steve spend hours arguing. Steve thinks you’re just wanting to be difficult for the sake of being difficult, but you bring up a lot of fair points. Stacking up problems that Steve assures can be tackled with enough money. There’s a reason you and all the other bootleggers are stranded where you are—you need good, dry corn. The hard waters of Kentucky, rich with limestone and other minerals, make the process of making moonshine easier. What about the copper stills you need? Plain steel just won’t do for you.

It’s getting late in the night. You and Steve are both red-faced and as spitting mad as you were at the start. Your father had left you two alone hours ago, shaking his head and snickering, knowing you can handle your own. “Jesus Christ,” you snarl suddenly after staring out the window at the nighttime skies. You stomp over to grab his upper arm. “Keep running your mouth, I don’t care, but you’re gonna have to do it while I’m working.”

By working, you mean speeding through the dark and winding roads of Appalachia in your pride and joy, a _Ford_ car, with a crate of mason jars between you two. Before it gets hot, you explain that local coppers have been trying and failing for years to catch your father in the act. Steve knows the cops don’t think a little thing who looks and talks as sweet as you could possibly be the brains behind the operation. The cops show up on your tail and you cackle before you put on the speed. Steve forgets all about his anger, watching you drive like a maniac under the moonlight, wind whipping your hair around your face. With his backroom deals, greasing the hands of cops with money, he’d forgotten the thrill of _this_. The chase.

You swerve off the road, parking your car on a little remote trail the cops obviously have no idea about. You both watch as the cops speed away, chasing nothing but a ghost. Well, with how expertly you’ve been driving, they’ve been chasing ghosts all night long. After you both come down from the adrenaline high, you say, “I don’t think this’ll work, Steve. I want it to, but…it ain’t a good move. It’ll be more trouble than it’s all worth.” And you sound genuinely upset about that.

Steve’s not ready to let a woman like you slip out of his fingers just yet. “Why don’t you come up to New York with me?”

You scoff. It’s a bitter sound. “I’m not some blushing virgin that you can get one over on. I know good and damn well what a kept woman is and that ain’t the life for me. I won’t lay around in your bed and spread my legs for you while you take over what I’ve worked hard at building my whole life.”

Steve slides a little closer to you and pushes some hair behind your ear. The late hour makes him brave…or stupid, if he’s been reading your signals wrong. “Sweetheart, I’d love nothing more than to have you in my bed.” You turn your head toward him and he can feel your burning glare more than he can see it in the moonlight. “But that’s not what I meant. I didn’t lie when I said I wanted you as a partner. I want you to come to New York and see what I have and what I can do.”

“I know this may be hard for a city boy like you to believe, but not everything is better in the city.”

“I can show you a few things we do better in the city,” Steve suggests lowly.

Slowly, you turn your head and your nose brushes past his. He can feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. “You usually this friendly with your partners?”

“My best friends, Bucky and Sam, they’ve both fucked me a few times over the years. You’ll learn this fast, honey, but I may have a thing for pretty people that can put me in my place.” He wants to pretend he didn’t hear the hitch in your breath. He leans back and gives you some space. Oh, well. He’s not going to lie about who he is. “You can tell me to fuck off.”

“I think we need to talk about your business practices there, Rogers. I was buried between Minnie Dean’s legs and you don’t see me giving her the recipe to daddy’s moonshine.” Steve breaks out into a fit of quiet laughter. You try to be serious, but you instantly cave and giggle along with him. It really is a beautiful sound.

“You win,” you breathe out after the two of you have gotten control of yourselves. “I’ll go with you. I can bring some corn. You can get a copper still. We’ll see what we can do with the water up there.” You reach out, playfully tap his cheek once, but your hand lingers on his skin. “Get out of the car, Brooklyn. Let’s see what you got.”

Steve lures you out of the car and into the cool autumn night. You two don’t stray very far. Steve leads you around to the front of the car and presses you down against the hood. He tugs at that pretty little ribbon in your hair and you sigh so beautifully when he runs his hand through your locks. Your hair fans out across the steel, glinting in the moonlight.

Pretty words won’t work on you, but you look like a fucking angel. Then, _finally_ , he’s leaning down and kissing you. It doesn’t surprise him your kisses are biting, stinging, a warning that you’re as dangerous as him. Here you are, looking like an angel, but you’re so obviously a serpent underneath the surface. Father Donahue would have some words about a woman like you. Lucifer, a fallen angel, the vile snake come to lead a lamb astray. Steve hasn’t been an innocent lamb in a long time, though.

His mouth drops down to nip at the delicate skin of your neck and you tilt your head back, baring your throat. “Minnie Dean ever return the favor?”

“That asshole brother she’s got came too close for comfort and spooked her off.” You chuckle dryly. “If what you really wanna know if anyone’s ever had their mouth on me down there, answer’s no. I’d hate to suffocate someone with my thighs and have ‘em die on me before I get mine.”

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, isn’t that a fucking crime? On one hand, yeah, he’s going to be puffing up with pride after tonight because he’s the first person to ever get a taste of that sweetness between your thighs. On the other hand, he wants to kill the people who haven’t treated you like the treasure you are. “Even if you could do something like that, I think I’d still die the happiest man in the world.”

Then, Steve sinks down to his knees in front of you. He carefully settles his hands on your calves and you hiss at the touch of his icy fingers on your flesh. It’s a common complaint. He’ll let your skin warm him up. He slides his hands up your legs, teasingly slow, and begins pushing the fabric of your dress up and out of the way the higher he goes. Steve greedily takes it all in, watching and touching all this smooth, soft skin that’s slowly revealed to him.

Being a good, helpful girl, you take the bunched fabric of your dress from Steve, clutching it tightly in one hand. Your other hand fists in Steve’s hair when he tugs your panties down your legs. He pats one of your thighs and guides you to drape it over his shoulder, giving him more room to play, and he sucks a bruise onto your skin. He takes a deep breath, catching the heady scent of your sex, and he groans.

Steve spreads the lips of your pussy, getting his first taste of you when he places a soft kiss to your clit and his lips tingle. It’s a tease, but it has you sucking in a sharp breath and it’s got him reaching down to press the heel of his hand against his hard cock. He drops his head down a little lower, grinning at the little squeak you give when his nose bumps at your clit. It’s too dark to see, a shame. Teasingly, he presses his thumb against your hole and you squirm restlessly. He replaces his thumb with the flat of his tongue and he moans because you’re so sweet. Sweet and tangy.

Steve slides his tongue up, through your folds, moving right back to that bundle of nerves. It breaks your silence and you moan lowly, sound echoing in the darkness. It only spurs Steve on and he proceeds to devour you. Feasts upon your pussy, cherishing and savoring it almost the same way he used to do with those rare pieces of fruit Bucky would steal when he and Steve were poor, starving kids. His eyes roam up the wide expanse of your body, watching the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your back arches off the car the closer you get to the edge.

Never let it be said that Steve Rogers isn’t a man of his word. You wanted to see what he’s got and he’ll fucking show you what he can do with his mouth. He eases your trembling thigh back down so you’re on steady ground, braces a forearm against your midsection, nurses at your clit, and slides two fingers inside your soaking pussy. He crooks them, searching until he presses against that ridged area.

“Steve!” You slap a hand down on the hood of your car. Your other hand is about to tear a chunk of his scalp out with the grip you’ve got on his hair. “Sweet fucking _Lord_.” His lips curl deviously. “Steve—oh, God bless—it’s so good. Steve, I—oh, _Jesus fucking Christ_!”

Steve starts rubbing furiously at that spot inside you, firm and steady pressure. He matches the pace with his tongue, circling and lapping at your clit. You scream when you reach your peak, entire body convulsing, and Steve quickly lowers his head. He moans like a whore when your come squirts into his waiting mouth. He can’t catch it all, though, and the rest soaks your thighs, the front of Steve’s shirt, and your panties. And, fuck, he’s already a mess, anyway. So, he shoves a hand down the front of his pants, takes himself in hand, and furiously strokes until he’s coming himself, coating his hand in thick, sticky white.

Steve makes sure to keep his hands on you, even as he stumbles to his feet. You’re still shaking all over, trying to catch your breath, furiously blinking the stars out of your eyes—or so his ego hopes. “I hope you know how to drive,” you whisper hoarsely. “Because you’re the only way we’re getting home now.”

“And that’s how we do it in the city,” Steve teases.

“Shut the fuck up and help me back in the car.”

\---

You’re perched on the edge of Steve’s desk. He watches as you take small, careful sips of the moonshine. After a few minutes of rolling the product around on your tongue, you sigh dramatically and turn to look out the window at the looming Brooklyn Bridge with a pinched expression. “It still ain’t Kentucky water,” you grumble. He waits until you reluctantly add, “But it’ll do.”

A smirk plays at Steve’s lips. “Want me to remind you of how I celebrate a new partner?”


End file.
